


shout (let it all out)

by charlie_mou



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Adam Parrish in a Skirt, Boys In Love, Boys in Skirts, Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Not Canon Compliant - Call Down the Hawk, Ronan is gonna die from a heart attack called Adam Parrish, Self-Discovery, lowkey Demisexual Adam, need i say more, sarchengsey is mentioned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27214621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlie_mou/pseuds/charlie_mou
Summary: He has never bought something just because it looked pretty.Or, Adam's (and Ronan's) life through skirts.
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 13
Kudos: 86





	1. Adam

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, this is a fic I partially wrote back in 2016 and rewrote some parts of it now. It will be around 16k in total. I haven't reread RC since 2018 so sorry if there are some mistakes. This is not CDTH compliant as I hate-loved it and I'm in denial about it.
> 
> Second of all, I reached for this fic out of frustration - because of the pandemic my uni life died down and all the stuff I thought I could finally do being out of my homophobic house are mostly not possible so it sucks a bit. So Adam, who is at this point basically my twin, is my self-discovery journey that started at uni, just a bit different and smothered in fluff.
> 
> Third of all, it's my first fic in RC fandom. Be gentle, for fuck's sake.
> 
> It's not beta-read.

Most people don't remember anything before they were five years old or so. Adam is not most people.

His father hits him for the first time when he is three years old. It's not much when compared to what Adam is going to experience later but little kids bruise like crazy.

Granny Fran is the first, and only, caring family member in little Adam's life. She carries him around, bakes him cookies, tells him stories, and dances with him to old swing songs. She lives from her dead husband's veteran's pension. She might be Alicia Parrish's mother but she makes her look like an adopted child, not her firstborn, with how little they have in common.

Adam's parents scream. She doesn't. When she comes to visit and both Robert and Alicia Parrish are home, Adam hides behind one of her many skirts.

They were all relicts from the eighties office attire. Adam's favorite was a red one, covered in white dots—from far away, it looked almost pink. When he remembers Granny Fran, he remembers her in that skirt.

He holds on tight onto that skirt when Granny Fran leaves the trailer. The next time he sees her, he has a black eye for being a crybaby.

Over the years, Adam learned Granny Fran wasn't above physical punishment and both her children were proof of that. She, in the opposite of Adam's parents, had a strict rule of no physical punishment before the age of thirteen.

Which means she does not like what she sees when she visits again. Adam isn't even four.

He leaves the trailer with her.

Adam stays with her for almost half a year. It's not normal, loving childhood either—she makes him stay in a corner, face to the wall, for hours, as a punishment, hates when he cries at night, sometimes forgets to feed him—but Granny Fran doesn't scream or beat him.

Then she faints in the kitchen. The pale blue skirt pooled around her looks like a halo.

Adam is the one who calls the ambulance. It's the fourth stage of cancer.

Adams goes back to the trailer, and those six months feel like a dream he made up.

In the coffin, Granny Fran is wearing a skirt too but it's an ugly thing, something so out of style, something so big on her that Adam is sure she would curse whoever put it on her.

He was five at the funeral. He shouldn't be able to remember it.

He remembers every second.

Alicia Parrish doesn't wear skirts. Skirts are elegant, usually, and she is not. She works physical jobs where skirts are impractical or minimum wage jobs with uniforms.

Objectively speaking, Adam's mother isn't ugly. She certainly wasn't when Adam was younger. He could see her getting uglier and uglier over the years—bags under her eyes getting bigger, shoulders getting bonier, her hips getting saggier, her teeth turning yellow from the cigarettes, her skin turning gray from alcohol.

Alicia Parrish doesn't wear skirts. But she has two, both from Goodwill and probably older than her. One is a black pencil skirt with a matching blazer, a funeral garment in both appearance and purpose. The other is flowery, puffy, white with a brown belt permanently sewn to the waistband.

Alicia Parrish doesn't have many happy days but when she does have them, she will most likely wear the second skirt.

She will smile and walk around their makeshift backyard and the skirt will flutter with the wind. She will smile and treat Adam as her child, not a burden.

The age of five or six is when the majority of the girls—and some boys—play with their mom's stuff. Fill their high heels with paper so their tiny feet can wear them, steal the most expensive lipstick from the vanity, tie fake pearls around their neck, slip on their mom's skirt.

Adam's mom doesn't have high heels or lipstick or fake pearls but she has her happy days skirt.

Adam had been left alone for prolonged moments of time since he was four—his parents couldn't, and probably didn't want to, afford preschool.

He's almost six when his childish curiosity gets the best out of him.

His mom's flowery white skirt hasn't been worn in weeks and lies at the bottom of a dresser.

He slips it on.

It's too long to walk in it but not too long for him to spin around, watching it float in the air, bouncing with the movement.

Boys don't wear skirts.

(When he recalls the memory, he can't help but think how disappointed Blue would be by these words. She would be disappointed by most words that leave Alicia Parrish's mouth.)

Adam's mom is rarely physically like his father. She slaps his face that day.

(This day is also when Adam hears the word _fag_ , for the first time, aimed at him.)

High school is a weird experience for Adam but it's kind of a trap too. _What happened to your face, Adam_ , the teachers ask when they decide to care, _Mommy and daddy don't love you_ , some kids mock, _Loosen up a bit, you will study yourself to death_ , other kids say.

Girls are usually nicer than boys, he learns, which doesn't make them less annoying. He goes to school to learn, not socialize. He has enough socializing at home.

Teenage girls rarely wear skirts, Adam notices. It's the only interesting observation about his classmates he can muster.

Close to summer before Adam transfers to Aglionby, he's pretending his ribs aren't screaming at him while he runs laps around the field, and Adam notices a girl.

He doesn't know her name because he doesn't know most names. He does know her skirt is the prettiest thing Adam has seen on any girl in their school. It's not conventional pretty or mainstream fashion pretty. It's obviously handmade, holds a certain degree of play.

It's a long denim skirt, buttoned up at the front, with lace at the bottom, pockets made of a different shade of denim, and a rainbow waistband that's actually a belt sewn up together to a too-big skirt.

The prettiest part is the butterflies. It has butterflies patches sewn on or ironed on in a beautiful pattern on both sides of the buttons, reaching the hem.

Adam wants to wear it. Wants to play with the texture of the butterflies, with the huge pockets, with the rainbow waistband.

But boys don't wear skirts so he keeps on running around the field, until the girl disappears, behind the bleachers.

Ironically, when he meets Blue again and Gansey is being Gansey, in his head, Adam refers to Blue as the Butterfly Girl, even though thanks to her name tag he knows her name is Blue.

Ironically, the butterfly skirt is the reason Adam gets Blue flowers.

The skirt was obviously handmade. Blue isn't conventionally pretty—her clothes are baggy and mismatched, her hair is uneven and disheveled, even in the Nino's uniform she is weird-looking—Ronan would probably call her style _color-vomiting_ —but neither was that skirt.

It feels like she could understand Adam, on some level. With how unruly she was, how she didn't seem to fit anywhere.

Blue doesn't wear skirts often around Adam, before and after they break up. Before, mostly because if anything she prefers equally weird, pretty, handmade dresses with leggings or colorful tights. After, because hiking while looking for a dead Welsh king and wearing skirts don't mix.

Blue doesn't wear skirts often but there's always at least one Fox Way lady who _is_ wearing a skirt.

It's a very specific type of skirt usually but also not really. By specific, Adam means _I'm a psychic and direct descendant of a Salem witch and I like to drink horrible tea while staring at the moon._ He would call it either very specific or a very vague definition of _specific_.

Persephone's skirts are always different though.

Adam's favorite is a lace white one she wears when she teaches Adam to read tarot cards in the backyard. It has that grandma vibes—not Granny Fran vibes though—very _grandma but still a hippie_ vibes. There are grass stains on the sides because they are sitting on the ground, and there's a pink dot on her knee from when she spilled strawberry lemonade.

This is how he remembers Persephone.

Blue doesn't wear skirts often but when she does, they are uniquely pretty.

Gansey picks her from work, taking her to Mammouth for a research spree. Adam looks up when they walk up the stairs, side by side.

Blue's knees are covered by three different shades of, well, _blue_. Pastel blue, blue, cobalt. It's frilly and probably used to be three different skirts and a wide black elastic waistband of yoga pants and it's held by purple suspenders, contrasting over Blue's tie-dye purple t-shirt.

He can see Gansey's hand brushing Blue's hip.

Adam isn't jealous, hasn't been for a long time.

He's envy. The skirt looks really pretty.

Gansey retreats his hand.

Adam looks away, at Ronan. Ronan is already watching. Staring, frozen. Resembles a Greek sculpture in the sun.

Adam's cheeks feel warm.

For a long time, there are no skirts in Adam's life. He has a boyfriend and boys don't wear skirts. Blue is in some exotic country with Gansey and Henry, wearing some resewn version of cargo pants probably. Opal hates skirts with a burning passion, would eat it first rather than wear it. Girls in Adam's classes at Harvard wear designer jeans, tweed, and capri pants.

The second year of Harvard is when it happens. It's a Halloween party, Ronan was supposed to drive up and keep Adam company through all the Halloween parties that weekend but one of the calves wasn't well and who is Adam to take Ronan away from his cows.

Jake barges into Adam's room without knocking. Adam sighs but it's not the first time it happens.

"Adam, my man," he says and Adam stares.

Adam was prepared to spend the night drafting another essay. He was not prepared to see Jake in a green pleated skirt, matching blazer, and a wig.

Adam knows Halloween is a weird time, okay? He knows, that's why he was going to barricade himself and Ronan in his room and wait it out.

"Save a guy and be a Heather," he explains without explaining a thing. "We have a group costume contest and Dylan just chickened out of wearing a skirt. We're doing _Heathers_."

This, of course, explains why he's asking Adam, in a way. Jake's group is the closest thing to friends Adam has at Harvard. Dylan and Adam have a similar build—Adam isn't short but he isn't exactly tall either, his hips are boney and the only place he has muscles in his arms, thanks to dealing with cars and heavy equipment at work throughout high school. Adam's height and narrowness probably have something to do with how malnourished he was during all his growth sprouts while Dylan's is simply his half-Asian genes.

"The winner gets a monthly coupon to that buffet down the street," Jake adds, like Adam was actually contemplating jumping into a skirt.

Now Adam is kind of contemplating it.

It's not like he really needs it. His scholarship covers his tuition and his student halls as long as he keeps up his grades—and he _will_ —one part-time job is enough for Adam to buy food and more often than not, Ronan gives him two-weeks worth of homecooked meals Adam can freeze. He doesn't need to desperately save money up.

Old habits die hard though. Adam can't cook anyway, at least he will eat edible meals for a month.

"Okay."

He doesn't even question why Jake and the rest of the group would want to win the group costume contest. It's not like any of them wouldn't be able to eat at that buffet every day anyway, they're loaded.

Blake is wearing a black and blue blazer and a skirt combination, doesn't need a wig with how long his hair is. Evelyn, Jake's girlfriend, has a very obvious James Dean costume on.

"Fuck gender roles, Adam," she tells him and Adam can only hear Blue's voice.

Livia, Evelyn's best friend, is wearing a yellow set.

In the next thirty minutes, Adam gets his legs more or less shaved, while Evelyn does his make-up.

They shove him into a bathroom with a red blazer and a white shirt with a fluffy neckline.

The skirt is plaid gray with red accents and hugs, _squishes_ , his thighs.

Jake takes a picture when Adam leaves the bathroom.

"It's not fair," Livia says, circling around him. "My skirt looks better on you than on me."

Jake takes another photo. "Think your boyfriend will like it?"

Adam has a mini heart attack for the thirty seconds it takes him to realize none of his friends have even Ronan's phone number and Ronan doesn't have any social media.

They do win the contest.

The skirt slides up his thighs with every movement. It's not pretty, not really, reminds him too much of private school uniforms.

"You know, Jake might tease but he wouldn't care if you wore make-up," Evelyn tells him when the rest of the group goes for drinks. "Or skirts."

With how stupid they all act, Adam sometimes forgets they are actually Harvard smart.

Ronan calls twenty minutes later. His caller ID is a picture of him with Opal in his lap, flipping the camera. It makes Adam smile.

He's requesting a video call, expecting Adam to be reading in his bed, not parading around a student bar in a skirt.

He rejects the call, goes outside, leans on the bike racks, and calls back. No video.

There's a moment of silence. Adam hates calls without video because Ronan kind of speaks with his face half the time.

"You okay?" Ronan asks when Adam continues to do nothing.

"Yeah." He fidgets. "Yeah, I'm just, out, it's loud here. We went to a bar."

"So you not missing me anymore?"

When they talked two days ago and Ronan told him he couldn't make it, they had a fight which came down to Adam being an ass because he missed him.

He doesn't know if Ronan is joking or if it's the insecurities and attachment issues talking.

Adam picks on the hem of the skirt, stretching it over his legs.

"I always miss you," he admits.

The deep breath Ronan takes on the other side makes Adam's cheeks warm. Even after almost two years, he can bring this kind of reaction out of him with a simple truth.

"That's gay, Parrish," he still sounds a little out of breath.

Adam glances down at the skirt and thinks, _that's gay._

"You can't see me rolling my eyes," he says, "but I'm rolling my eyes at you."

"Aren't you always?"

Talking with Ronan makes Adam feel better, even about such stupid stuff as wearing a skirt in public and enjoying the taste of the watermelon lip balm.

"Talk to me, Lynch," he says. "How's Opal doing?"

Livia makes him keep the skirt and the lip balm.

Ironically, Adam takes up make-up first. It's all Ronan's fault.

He's looking for a last-minute addition to Ronan's birthday present, which is hard, because, although Adam has the money to buy Ronan something nicer, Ronan is still a rich asshole who has everything and they still have a thirty-dollars-a-present limit in their friend group. He's already bought him an accordion photo album that Ronan can put in his wallet and filled it with printouts of their—their _family_. He's going to bake Ronan's favorite giant choco-chip cookies—the only thing Adam can actually bake—and wanted to add a small sketchbook with quality paper. He has ten dollars to spend on it and thrift stores or Dollartree don't have what he's looking for so he visits TJ Max, which Adam hates. But they have cheap sketchbooks.

They also have a sale make-up shelf.

So Adam leaves with a sketchbook, eyeliner, basic eyeshadow palette, sheer lipstick, and brown mascara.

It takes some time and shit tone of youtube tutorials but he gets the grip on very thin, almost invisible winged eyeliner and basic eyeshadow that makes his eyes seem narrow and heavy-lidded.

Adam forgets he shouldn't be wearing it outside his room when he spends five hours in a row studying and goes to the kitchen half-alive, aiming to heat up some of Ronan's frozen lasagna.

It's almost February. Adam is swaddled up in Ronan's ridiculously big and ridiculously expensive black cashmere sweater and Harvard sweatpants. He did his make-up two hours ago as a means to relax, catching a break before he stopped being able to count to ten again, and after another three hours, he is finally feeling hungry.

Jake studies at the kitchen table, says he can't focus in his room.

He blinks at Adam while Adam stares at the microwave.

"Are you wearing eyeliner?" he asks.

Adam's body stiffens. It's an instinctual reaction earned from years around Robert Parrish.

He nods.

"Cool," Jake says. "Hey, is there any chance you would share that made-with-love lasagna?"

"In your dreams." It was made with love _for Adam_ , after all.

Livia and Evelyn catch up quickly and Adam finds himself impulse buying— _Adam Parrish, impulse buying_ —cosmetics. Blush, concealer, peachy eyeshadows, moisturizer, serum, face mask, lipstick.

Before Valentine's Day—before he drives up to spend the weekend in the Barns—Adam decides to buy a lighter coat.

Thrift shops close to Harvard all have good stuff, hidden design brands that look new and unused. It's the combination of rich students and richer adults donating their clothes and buying what's in fashion every season.

Adam's found nice shirts, streetwear, and designer jeans in the few shops nearest to student halls.

He finds a thin tweed coat, gray, one that speaks business but doesn't make him look like a middle-aged politician. It's in the women's section.

There are also skirts in the women's section. And wide-legged trousers that look almost like a very long, flowy skirt.

He buys a skirt and a pair of culottes.

Both are brown. The skirt is plaid, with big buttons on the side, looser at the hem. The pants are actually corduroy dungarees that get wider and wider since mid-thigh, blending into each other.

He has never bought something just because it looked pretty.

He wears the skirt exactly once before going to the Barns for Valentine's Day.

It's surprisingly uneventful.

"Bet you your boy is going to love it," Jake teases when he sees Adam in the lecture hall.

Adam doesn't take the skirt to the Barns. Or the culottes. Or any of his cosmetics, expect for a strawberry lip balm that Ronan licks off his lips.

Adam doesn't tell him about the skirt. Or about any of the skirts that follow the first buy. He doesn't videocall in make-up, wears jeans when Ronan comes to visit in March, wears dress pants during Easter, has shorts on in April, and somehow, it never reaches Ronan.

He doesn't know why he doesn't tell him.

It's a lie. He does know.

Adam never had a big internal coming-out moment. What Ronan refers to as his Big Gay Moment was seeing Adam bike down the street during a drizzle. Adam has never looked at a guy and just _knew_ , at least not until Ronan. It was a gradual thing, came first with the realization he liked Ronan, _and_ then found him attractive. Objectively, he could say Ronan was attractive before but he didn't want to kiss the living daylight out of him before he realized he liked him.

That was the reason he wasn't as heartbroken as it might have seemed when he and Blue broke up. He wanted to hold her hand and go on dates and make her laugh and try kissing with her but never more. And even _kissing_ felt like something conditioned into him—every teen wanted to kiss so Adam should want it too. Blue was interesting and pretty in the way that made him look at her and look and _look_. But when he realized it was just this and not genuine feelings, the desire to even try kissing kind of disappeared.

Now, in college when he can finally allow himself to let go, people rarely catch his eyes. If someone were to ask Adam whether or not he found someone—no matter what gender—attractive, he would say _I don't know_ , yet if it's Ronan, well.

He doesn't know if it's a trauma thing or not. He was conditioned into many thoughts and behaviors and realizing which is which, is hard.

Adam hadn't had affection for the first seventeen years of his life and it took him time before he could accept it from Ronan—a surprisingly clingy boyfriend—and even more time before he could give it without expecting punishment for it.

Accepting that he isn't straight wasn't a moment for Adam. It's iffy at best and has more to do with fitting in rather than with sexuality itself. He craved somewhere to fit in for years, still tries to fit in everywhere else. It's, again, a conditioned response.

Being gay—or bi—in straight society isn't _fitting in_. Adam may know it's not a bad thing and whoever thinks otherwise is a shitbag but it doesn't mean it sank in.

Being a stereotype is even worse and what is a not-straight boy in a skirt, if not a huge stereotype. Stereotypes are loud, attention-grabbing, always toxic and never fit in.

Adam wasn't the one to fit into Ronan's love, it was more like Ronan decided to fit his love around Adam—Adam who was a bit of an asshole, overworked, had issues with money, and a mix of trauma-related issues to work through. He didn't fit it around Adam who liked make-up and pretty, girly clothes.

Boys don't wear skirts. Even if Ronan doesn't agree—and that's a big _if_ —he is convinced _Adam_ doesn't wear skirts or make-up. Adam doesn't know how he would react. He didn't sign up for skirt and make-up wearing Adam—he signed up for grease-covered hands, worn-out jeans, and t-shirts with holes.

Adam can't imagine what he would do if Ronan was opposed. He would probably retreat to Adam before Halloween, close this part of himself deep down in his heart and never show it again to anyone. It contradicts all Adam has worked for—it's jumping from one setting that tells you what you can and cannot do to another.

But he would still do it.

It scares him sometimes, how much he's willing to lose his own identity for Ronan.

So when Adam buys his first summer skirt, he decides there will be no telling—he's going to rip it off like a bandaid in the Barns, just show up downstairs in the kitchen in a skirt and eye make-up and they will have to talk about it.

The night before Ronan is to pick him from the halls for the summer, he doesn't sleep. He's doing what he does best—overthinking.

He doesn't sleep. The shadows under his eyes are horrendous.

All the things he wants to take to the Barns are prepared for packing or storage—all in boxes, his suitcase half-ready. His little mirror is still on the desktop, his makeup bag open, lying in the suitcase. Two skirts are chosen for the summer—a linen blue one and the new one, off-white with faded flower pattern—sit at the top of the pile.

Ronan shows up in the doorway while Adam is about to blend the concealer under his eyes.

"Lynch," he manages to get out while Ronan stares at him. "You were supposed to come in two hours." _After lunch_ , he was supposed to arrive after lunch.

Ronan stays in the doorway. "I couldn't sleep," he says in lieu of an explanation. "What's that on your face?"

Adam stilled himself for the worst.

"Concealer." He pauses, observing Ronan's confusion. "I couldn't sleep either, just wanted to cover that up."

Blue used to call Adam's undereye shadows something of an honorary member of their group but since graduating high school, they rarely appear. It always made him look like he hasn't slept in a week and—although Ronan wouldn't admit it—it worried Ronan.

Ronan still looks confused. "I don't care if you look half-dead." Adam supposes it's kind of sweet, not surprising though—Ronan found Adam attractive when he was three-fourth-dead. "Give it back to whichever girl you got it from and let's go to lunch."

 _Girl._ Boys don't wear makeup.

So Adam puts it down and washes it off in the bathroom.

Ronan gets up from where he's sitting on Adam's bare bed, smiles when he corners Adam, his hands reaching for Adam's neck.

"Here he is, my half-dead, overworked Parrish."

He bends down—because he's been getting more and more freakishly tall since high school—and kisses Adam.

This became a tradition of sorts for them, especially when they hadn't seen each other for two weeks or more. If they are in public, the first thing they do is a hug. If they aren't in public, they kiss. It's the kind of tradition Adam longed to have in his life.

Adam unpacks the two skirts and his makeup bag from the suitcase when Ronan isn't paying attention and leaves it all next to the storage box in the closet. Tries to forget about it.

He spends the summer in shorts, with a face covered in sunscreen. Everything seems the same.

Gansey, Blue, and Cheng visit in July, for Adam's birthday. The heatwave was hitting Henrietta for the past two weeks.

Blue looks really pretty in a skirt that used to be her mom's sundress. She added lace and made it into a wrap skirt, with strings to tie around her tiny waist. The boho pattern on it only reminds Adam of his own summer skirt.

He wants to say something about it but he also doesn't know what exactly he _could_ say.

So he grabs Opal, balances her on his hip—Adam is the only person who can manhandle her like that, she tries to bite off Ronan's arm when he does that—and goes to prepare stuff for the picnic.

For the first time, Adam has mixed feelings about leaving Virginia. Usually, he aches, anticipating the yearning he will feel the minute Ronan won't be within the mile. Now, he's kind of excited too.

So Ronan drives him up to the student halls, helps him unpack, they spend the night together, eat breakfast and Ronan drives off.

Adam misses him already, he really does, but he also unpacks his makeup bag and puts an overnight face mask on. Before the summer, his skin was smooth, bright—not at all resembling the dry, red, and crispy feeling it had now. It calms him down a bit.

The next day, he does his usual makeup—the softer version of fox eye with a tinted lip balm—and puts on his unworn summer skirt.

He doesn't wear skirts every day, just to avoid stigma in certain circles, but at least twice a week. He has some casual ones to wear around the halls, finds them to be more comfortable than jeans or even sweatpants. Some sort of makeup is always present, just not too much—he wants his skin to breathe and Ronan likes his freckles so Adam's never really had a desire to cover them up. Soft, natural-looking sharp, narrow eyes is as daring as he gets and when he doesn't want to even chance any attention, he just does eyeliner close to the waterline, with brown mascara and corrects any spots he has, and uses semi-transparent lipgloss.

They video call almost every day, either in the morning, after Ronan's first round of farm chores and before Adam's breakfast, or in the evening, when Adam has already removed the makeup and sits on his bed in pajama pants and Ronan's t-shirt or sweater.

This continues up until the beginning of October when he's scheduled for a drive-up to the Barns. Drive-up _home_.

The first month apart is always the hardest so they learned to plan the first visit as fast as they can.

They spend the weekend together and when Adam goes back to Harvard, Ronan is none the wiser. It feels like a double life. It feels like Adam should stop—but he doesn't want to.

Ronan still doesn't know.

And then he shows up at Adam's room on Friday afternoon a week later. He knocks on the door and Adam opens it, in his jean A-line long skirt and a white t-shirt, eyeliner present, thinking it's Jake asking for Adam's notes again.

It's Ronan with a plastic bag in each hand.

He drops the bags when Adam's appearance sinks in.

Adam closes the door on his face. Washes the make-up off, trades his skirt for jeans, and hides everything in his closet as deep as he can.

He hasn't heard him call out through the door the whole time so he's either waiting patiently—highly unlikely—or already left the building and is currently driving back to Virginia. Adam opens the door and there's no one on the other side.

He kind of wants to cry but Adam Parrish doesn't cry. No, Adam Parrish ignores the problem, makes a jug of coffee—his equivalent of alcohol—and does the assigned reading for the next two weeks instead of sleeping.

Ronan is in the kitchen, microwaving a tupperware and placing food containers onto Adam's shelf in the freezer which is already half-filled with frozen meals from him.

He looks up at Adam, still quite wide-eyed and evidently confused, takes in Adam's naked, pinkish face and worn-out jeans. The confusion is a weird look on him—he went through the whole dead Welsh king, Sleepers, demons, hitmen, and psychics thing without being noticeably confused and here he is, not able to comprehend _Adam_ and _skirt_ together.

"You didn't eat lunch, did you?" he asks Adam, his gaze still wandering between Adam's face and his jeans. "Because you're eating one now, like it or not."

Adam sputters, "You were supposed to come for Halloween."

He was. He's almost three weeks early.

"Yeah, I was," Ronan says slowly. "You left your bathroom bag. And you can't eat take out all the time so..."

He doesn't say he could leave if it's a bad time, like he usually does when he makes a surprise visit.

This feels awkward and uncomfortable, so unlike them, but Ronan hasn't left screaming that Adam is a freak yet so Adam will take it as a win.

"Come on, Parrish," he continues when Adam just stares. "Don't I at least deserve a kiss for being such a great boyfriend?" His voice has a teasing note but he opens his arms like he wants Adam in them. Even after what he's just seen.

Adam will definitely take it as a win.

They don't kiss. Adam hides his face in Ronan's collarbone, tries to breathe with every squeeze he gives Ronan's waist.

It keeps on going and going but Adam doesn't let go. In his defense, Ronan doesn't let go either, even when the microwave beeps.

Adam has never been surprised at how gentle Ronan can be but it always catches him by surprise, how _often_ he is. Maybe he doesn't take the affection for granted, with how far away Adam is for most of the year.

It still warms Adam's heart when, before letting go of Adam, he kisses his forehead.

He would do anything for Ronan's love.

"Now, your boney ass is going to eat my saucy pasta, study while I prepare dinner, and _then_ get a nice eight hours of beauty sleep." Adam laughs awkwardly. "I mean it, you look like shit, Parrish."

They don't talk about it.

Adam eats the mushroom sauce pasta—Ronan's made it his own personal mission, getting Adam from underweight to healthy, even if Adam's body hasn't agreed the past two years, and Adam learned to indulge him if he didn't want any arguments—and then Adam does his homework while Ronan takes Adam's card and goes grocery shopping and prepares his mom's Cheesy Delight or what Adam calls Calorie Bomb. Adam tries not to stress about the afternoon situation.

They eat on Adam's bed and Ronan narrates to him what happened at the Barns in the past week once more—they _do_ video call every day—and when Adam feels full, he changes into his sweatpants, gives Ronan a pair too—he sleeps shirtless—and they lie down.

Adam, as calm as he can be given the situation, reads a handout for his Monday class. Ronan, with his head lying under Adam's sternum, scrolls through farming ebooks on his phone.

When Adam's eyes get tired, Ronan gets up, turns off the lights, and pads in the dark, back to Adam's chest.

Adam can't see anything except for the street lights that pierce through his curtains, it's quite enough with a party going on two floors up.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Ronan's voice is hushed but Adam can feel his chin on his chest and ignores the way Ronan is tilting his head up, staring at his face.

"No."

Ronan doesn't stop looking at him, like he isn't satisfied with the answer.

"Is it—" Adam tenses. "Is it, like, a gender thing? Trans thing?"

Adam's eyes meet Ronan's. "No."

They don't talk about it more. Since Ronan's visit wasn't planned, Adam still has ten hours of work in the auto shop on both Saturday and Sunday and can't keep him company—Ronan goes back to the Barns.

Adam wishes they had talked about it as soon as Ronan leaves. He can't get himself to text him about it and he still doesn't know what Ronan thinks. Should he stop wearing skirts? Should he stop wearing make-up? Does he not mind as long as he doesn't see it?

They both ignore Ronan's unannounced visit and Adam tries to stress about classes instead and video calls him with usual topics, like nothing happened.

The only reason why Adam doesn't dread Halloween is that Opal will be there and they don't argue in front of her.

Halloween is on Thursday, Adam has classes on Friday morning and a couple of hours in the auto shop on the weekend—he can't drive to Virginia so they will go for Opal's first trick or treating here. They decided Opal has been around humans enough she can be around strangers now and Opal has been having an Addams Family phase since September and Ronan promised her she could go trick or treating as little Wednesday Addams.

Adam bought an air mattress his first year in college, thinking there was no possible way he and Ronan will fit in the bed together. Apparently, they both preferred to be squeezed and sore rather than spend a night apart so the mattress became Opal's designated bed while staying at Adam's.

Adam's student halls weren't really strict about guests, the only two rules they execute are _no drugs_ and _no property damage_ , but Opal still rarely visits, mostly to avoid potential questions about her. If asked, she is Ronan's little cousin whose parents were temporarily indisposed.

When Ronan and Opal arrive, it's already five and Opal is already wearing a braided black wig and long black collared dress with tall boots hiding her hooves. Her angry face, an expression that mirrors Ronan's in all but genes, sells it. She looks adorable.

"Hey, sweetheart," Adam says as she spills into his arms. He lifts her up on his hip, already feeling the backpain it comes with. "Did you have a good trip?"

She nods in Adam's neck. The clinginess is something both her and Ronan share, two weeks away from each other and Adam has a guaranteed ten-minute smothering session on sight. Not that he complains.

"Kerah spilled a milkshake all over the car," she mumbles into his collarbone.

"Hey," Ronan protests. "Snitches get stitches, shitbird."

Adam laughs, finally looking away from Opal. He's hit by the sight of Ronan in a very unflattering striped black suit and with an even more unflattering mustache.

"Not a word."

So Adam says, "Is this why you didn't shave the last two weeks?"

Video calls most of the time to have shitty quality but after a week, there was no way to miss that—Ronan's natural ability to be hairy everywhere but on his chest made his week-beard look like Adam's month-beard. He didn't say anything because, again, no complaints from him.

"The kid insisted and someone has to make sure she doesn't start screeching at people in Latin."

Adam doesn't let go of Opal, instead grabs his hoodie from the chair and checks in the pocket of his jeans.

Before he can go for the door, Ronan grabs his arm and shoves a bag at him. Adam assumed it's their overnight bag but apparently no.

"What, you thought you can skip out on the costume?" he says. "Go change, Parrish."

He glances down at Opal who is already staring at him expectedly.

So he sits Opal on his bed with a box of stones and crystals while Ronan sits at his desk, and goes to the bathroom. It's not like any of them will care they are too old for costumes—Adam learned not to care about what people around them think when Ronan is around, he's just too distracting to care about anyone else.

Clothes are all black—which Ronan must have loved—the sweater has flared sleeves, the pants are satin. The pants, Adam realizes when he takes them, are not pants.

It's a skirt.

Adam sits on the toilet seat, staring at it.

He can't decide if it's mocking, accepting, or just a costume.

"Lynch," he calls out through the door. "There's a—"

He can't say it out loud.

He hears Ronan spin on the desk chair.

"The maggot is always on my ass for dreaming stuff I don't use, it's not eco-friendly, and all that shit," he says and Adam can't recognize any emotions in his voice. "So I dreamed you something you can use after Halloween."

Adam enters the room in a satin a-line skirt.

Ronan looks up from his phone, stares at Adam for a prolonged moment. His expression isn't different from how he usually looks at Adam but it's too stiff.

"Aren't you missing something?" he asks, glancing away from Adam, back to his phone.

"What?"

Ronan points vaguely at his own face, still avoiding Adam's eyes.

"Oh," Adam manages.

Ronan glances from the screen, raising his eyebrows. Adam almost trips on the way back to the bathroom.

So Adam is in public in a skirt, with make-up a little more goth than he's comfortable with, holding Opal's hand while Ronan's own hand sits on the waistband of Adam's skirt. They take turns who is going to go up to the door with Opal and her mini-pumpkin candy basket.

When they come back for the night, Ronan watches through the open bathroom door when he removes the make-up, cleans his face, and puts on the moisturizer. Bored of counting sweets, Opal wanders into the bathroom, while he's finishing off, dips her hand in his aloe vera cream and applies it copying Adam's movement. Adam smudges the residue on her nose.

Opal doesn't talk or smile all that much but she never feels cold or absent either. He loves her for it, they both do.

The next morning, Adam feels brave and wears the same skirt Ronan'd seen him in the first time—jean, a-line, with a belt to tie up on the side. He adds the Coca Cola t-shirt, one out of three Ronan dreamed him when the original one started treading, and does the subtlest version of make-up, with dimmed eye corners and eyeliner on the waterline. All while Ronan makes them eggs and bacon.

Adam is in the middle of braiding Opal's hair, bouncing her on his knees so she doesn't get fidgety. Both Ronan and Adam learned how to braid in seven different styles as soon as it became clear she won't let anyone cut her hair.

Ronan comes in with scrambled eggs and toasts with fig jam on two plates—Opal doesn't eat human food as often as they would like her to, with the exception of sweets, but she likes to eat from their plates. He sits next to Adam, waiting for him to finish the second braid.

Adam feels his eyes creeping up and down his body and face, feels on fire, feels like he shouldn't look back at Ronan.

He looks back at Ronan.

There's no judgment or disgust—there's deep, unsatisfied _hunger_. Ronan's eyes are staring, he can see the longing of his soul in that gaze, and a small, soft smile.

It's home. It's late summer night spent lying in bed—or in the hay—it's Ronan's lips on his forehead.

And it's still directed at him, despite what he's wearing, despite how he's looking.

It's everything.

Adam's ears and neck flushes.

It's Ronan.

It's Ronan who puts the plates on Adam's desk and seats Opal on the chair in front of it. Adam is halfway up when he comes in, sharp eyes in the color of blue steel freezing him in place. He falls back on the bed when Ronan kisses him, one arm wrapping around Ronan's neck, leaning on his elbow.

It's as heated as Ronan's gaze. He feels Ronan's spine under his fingers, feels his breath going away as Ronan moves from his lips to his neck, leaving a trail of radiating nibs.

As Ronan's hand moves under the hem, uncovering Adam's knees and slowly traveling up his thigh, between kisses, he says, "You're fucking gorgeous."

And Adam believes him. Lets him push him further onto the bed.

With the rest of his self-control, Adam manages to say, "I have classes."

Ronan leans away, still with sharp eyes and flushed cheeks, "It's my birthday."

They both know Adam still has to go to his seminaries.

When Adam enters his first class of the day, with a travel mug full of Ronan's perfect coffee—with the perfect sip of milk and the perfect amount of honey and with a perfect teaspoon of caramel—sits in his usual place at the front, Jake narrows his eyes, laughing quietly.

"Ronan's in town?" he asks.

Adam stares at him, wondering if it really shows that much on his face.

Jake vaguely points at his own neck, still amused.

"Oh," Adam manages, feeling his cheeks turning red, his palm cupping that apparently very noticeable hickey. Or hickeys.

It feels liberating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter (Ronan's POV) is almost ready and the third is half rewritten.
> 
> Hope you liked that!


	2. Ronan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If chapters had titles: Ronan Lynch is a simp

Ronan’s mom rarely wears pants, despite working on a farm. This is partially what makes her so warm in Ronan’s memories. Her, lifting her skirt while going upstairs to wake up Matthew. Her, feeding the chickens while her skirt flutters with the wind. Her, dancing in the kitchen to one of dad’s Irish folk records.

It makes her feel very motherly.

It’s hard to pinpoint which skirt he remembers as her first.

He knows she had three she would wear only to church—a dark brown, so brown it was almost black, tweed one she wore in the winter, light, linen one covered in poppies that she wore in the summer, and a simple navy blue one, pleated. She wore dresses to church, more often.

He remembers, distinctly, his first day at school, when he was a snotty six-year-old who didn’t want to be alone, who wanted to stay with Matty and help mom with dinner and never ever see other kids.

She was wearing a denim pinafore, one of the suspenders falling off her shoulder while she tried to wipe the tears on his cheeks, his face hidden behind her thigh. He cried through the whole first hour of classes.

First grade was hell. In general.

His mom had so many colorful skirts and dresses he was sure it was taking the majority of his parents’ walk-in wardrobe. They were all so _pretty_ , so soft, so warm, so feminine.

Describing Matty, even when he was really small, he would always use the word _soft._ _Pastel_. _Cuddly_. When he was six, chubby-cheeked and tiny, he wore only pastel-colored clothes, dotted PJs, yellow dungarees, sky blue t-shirts, and washed-out, light jeans.

He was also the one who decided to delve into the laundry basket, put on their mom’s skirt and fill up her church shoes with toilet paper and root her vanity for hair clips, all while she was preparing lasagna.

Their little brother, dancing with their mom in the kitchen, with hair full of tiny white flowers, clunking in heels with the grace of an elephant, skirt so high he had it in between his armpits, is what greets Declan and Ronan when they finally bike from school.

His mom isn’t sheepish when she turns the music down. No, she asks them if any of them wants to join.

"Look like Mama," Matty says.

They both join. Declan used to be okay, for an older brother. Both grab their mom’s summer skirts—flowery, pink, and white, with a tiny bit of lacing underneath.

This memory is bittersweet though. When the four of them are having a makeshift karaoke, singing into spatulas, their dad comes home. It’s two days earlier than he planned and when he finds them in the kitchen, the smile falls off his face.

Matty asks him if he wants to join.

This is one of the memories Ronan chooses to ignore and forget, his father saying, “My sons ain’t gonna be some pansies.”

So they scatter off while their mom calms down their father and forget it ever happened, forget what their father said but never forget the meaning of _pansy_. Dad leaves for another business trip and their mom allows them to do it again—this time, Declan doesn’t join.

Eventually, he and Matty grow out of it, after a year or two.

But his mom’s skirts never stop being pretty in his eyes, no matter how feminine, how girly, how flowery they are. It contradicts young Ronan’s hatred for any girl in his class, any flowery pattern, for any split of pastels in his clothes—his mom is an exception, like always.

There’s Sarah’s skirt, purple corduroy one, one that was trendy when he was in seventh grade. It’s long and a bit too big on her and makes her look funny, in Ronan’s opinion. It doesn’t look pretty, doesn’t spark the same emotions as his mom’s, doesn’t make him feel warm.

Her Valentine’s Day card certainly doesn’t make him warm either.

He doesn’t know what happens with her skirts when they get banned from entering the Barns. If she still wears them, if she threw them out, if she even remembers which ones were their dad’s favorites.

After she—After she disappears with Cabeswater, and after Ronan—and Adam, in a sense, too—moves in, they all help him to sort through his parents' clothes. _Their_ parents' clothes, as both Declan and Matty are there. All her skirts land in cardboard boxes in the attic, along with Ronan’s childhood memories and his dad’s boots and suits.

He will probably never see them again.

Of course, Ronan sees other girls in skirts but he never really pays attention. Ronan isn’t a fan of skirts.

He definitely isn’t a fan of Blue’s skirts. Especially when Parrish keeps on staring at them.

Objectively speaking, Sargent’s skirts are ugly, like the majority of her clothes—although it might be a matter of taste since it doesn’t stop both Parrish and Gansey from looking at her as if she wore Channel or something. Her clothes look like that one pattern Matty puked out on their carpet when he ate only Lucky Charms for two days straight, with a splash of black.

And Parrish can’t keep his eyes off them. Or off her.

It’s especially irritating at the beginning—Parrish still hated his guts, even though he’s been friends with Gansey for some time, and then she showed up out of nowhere, just as snarky as Ronan, just as sassy as Ronan, just as angry as Ronan, as arrogant as Ronan and somehow, _she_ is the one he likes immediately.

She wears skirts that look like they were made from leftover materials, or plastic wrap, or fucking curtains, or jean jackets, and Parrish can’t keep his eyes off her. It’s fucking unfair.

But then they break up and Parrish doesn’t look as heartbroken as he should. He still stares at her, at her recycled clothes, at her unruly hair so maybe it was all about Sargent being pretty—which doesn't help Ronan’s case.

But, well, it all works out in the end. Without Ronan having to wear a fucking ugly skirt to catch his attention.

Adam is his, and he moves in, and he’s going to college for at least four years, but it’s fine. It’s fine. Really, it’s fine because Adam is his and he belongs in the Barns and they’re going to call and text every day—the shitty phones are finally useful for something—and Adam will be back before he knows.

And Ronan didn’t like to let his insecurities the best of him but it’s harder when Adam is at Harvard.

They’ve been together long enough that Ronan is confident in two things. One, he loves Adam and, if Adam lets him, he will marry him. Which, most people would say, is too fast and too bold but Ronan’s nature is fast and bold in every way, shape, and form.

Two, Adam actually loves him back. Very much.

However, he’s not sure Adam loves him enough that he would like to marry him—or if Adam even wants to marry at all—he’s not sure he loves him enough that he would stay in Ronan’s life forever. The distance between Henrietta and Harvard is a challenge, something to overcome.

Adam might not realize that he still looks at Blue with a certain kind of longing—certain because it doesn’t always show and Ronan has yet to find the factor that makes Adam stare at Blue like she holds everything he desires from the world.

He wonders, sometimes, if it’s because it’s Blue or because she’s a girl. Adam never denies their relationship—they admit when they are asked but never _flaunt_ it. They still live in rural Virginia and although Ronan wouldn’t mind getting into a fight with some homophobes over holding his boyfriend’s hand, Adam had had enough punches directed at him for the next three lifetimes.

Girls were just easier with how the world worked for people like them. Adam could always choose a girl because he deserves to finally have something easy in his life.

And Ronan is more difficult to love than most.

He starts hearing about Evelyn in November, after his birthday. Adam’s been mentioning her for two weeks, every day, when Ronan snaps into paranoia. He was supposed to visit for Thanksgiving but he asks Adam if he can come the next day.

Evelyn is not someone he should have worried about. It’s obvious she has no interest in Adam and Adam has no interest in her, they just have a common topic, which is her boyfriend Jake—whom Adam has been mentioning too—who is getting the same degree as Adam and apparently, is kind of an idiot.

Ronan probably should have been more worried about Jake, to be honest. He looks at Adam like he is God’s most precious gift, which Ronan can relate to, but which doesn’t make him feel better.

They met through Evelyn who met Adam at LGBTQ society going out—Ronan hasn’t even known he attended these—and then later noticed Adam leaving the same lecture as her boyfriend and introduced them.

There’s also Cassandra and Olivia, both single and looking at Adam like he’s the best thing since sliced bread.

It’s weirdly reassuring when Adam ignores them all in favor of lecturing him about not driving for eight hours when sleep-deprived, holding his hand the whole time.

When he has to go back to the Barns, Adam doesn’t seem to want to let go of him just as much, even with his new group of friends being two streets away. It’s comforting, seeing how much Adam misses him is real, even if there are rich, attractive, and probably less problematic guys and girls he could choose from.

When Adam comes for Christmas, he takes the picture of them both, one when Ronan is flipping off the camera in front of the tree and sends it to his Harvard friends not caring it’s not exactly picture-perfect the rich snobs would expect.

Adam never calls him out on being difficult, never says he has to put up with his attitude. No, he says, “Lynch,” rolls his pretty eyes and accepts it with a certain amount of fondness.

Maybe it’s because he loves Ronan that much. Maybe he’s just not ashamed of how his life looks like anymore.

It’s what will always make Adam his safest place, safer even than the Barns. Ronan has never had anyone who would let him be himself, let him be whoever he wanted to be at the moment.

So Ronan stops worrying. Adam has friends at Harvard, friends who are rich and aren’t assholes, friends who make him go out and who e-mail Ronan whenever Adam is close to running himself into the ground with how much work he has, friends whom Adam sends photos throughout the summer, friends that make them both go on a trip to NYC which Ronan hates.

He’s Adam’s and Adam is his.

He stops worrying.

He stops worrying until he picks Adam up from the dorms after his second year and finds him with a _concealer_ of all things.

Adam seems as surprised as he is.

He hasn’t seen anything like a concealer in Adam’s overnight bags. Shampoo, flowery conditioner, hand cream, a lip balm during the winter.

This isn’t Adam’s, he _knows._ He would have seen it.

The only logical explanation is that he borrowed it.

“Give it back to whichever girl you got it from and let’s go to lunch.”

Adam doesn’t give it back to _anyone_. It lies on his desktop and Ronan tries to ignore the implication that some _girl’s_ concealer belongs in _Adam’s_ bedroom.

But then Adam is packing some leftover stuff and Ronan notices a make-up bag in the closet, lying next to some clothes Ronan can’t recognize.

Adam’s wash bag is already packed—it’s the same one he uses every day while living in the dorms—in the luggage. Ronan keeps glancing at that pastel blue make-up bag from time to time, up until Adam hides it in one of the storage boxes when he thinks Ronan isn’t looking—like it’s a secret.

“Ready to go,” he says but it sounds off.

Ronan knows it’s the paranoia and there’s no girl that is slowly replacing him. Adam’s been sounding off for some time now, when they talk, like he’s been hiding something, but it could be just Ronan’s insecurities or something as simple as Adam having money trouble he didn’t want Ronan to know about.

Adam cheating on him doesn’t make sense simply because he is not the kind of person who cheats. If he met some girl, he would tell Ronan before trying to do anything with her.

It’s just paranoia or insecurities. It’s probably Evelyn’s or Olivia’s who already left and can afford to buy a whole new make-up bag of stuff. Hell, it can be filled with pens and highlighters, for all he knows, Adam could have gotten it because it was cheap.

It’s the paranoia talking, the insecurities.

Adam is a little quieter on the drive to Henrietta but it’s just the paranoia.

 _It’s the paranoia_ , Ronan tells himself, again and again. _You trust Parrish_.

The summer looks normal, Adam acts normal. Adam works, Ronan works. There are no weird texts or phone calls, Adam doesn’t try to hide his phone. The only trips outside of town Adam takes, he always asks Ronan to come with him. He sends pictures of Ronan and Opal to both Dick and Blue _and_ his friends.

He sometimes looks—well, sad isn’t the word, but thoughtful with a pinch of sad, maybe. Ronan dreams him weird shit whenever it happens or makes him work on the farm together and that takes his attention.

He definitely looks a bit sad on his birthday, when Gansey, Blue, and Cheng show up. He definitely stares at Blue like she has all the answers to life. It’s just glimpses and passes but Ronan’s trained himself into noticing.

He feels like he fucked up somehow. But Adam tells him when he fucks up so maybe it’s the paranoia again.

They don’t talk about it because Ronan doesn’t know what _it_ is exactly, and Adam has a tendency to ignore his problems until they explode into his own face.

He might be going through some of his issues. Some of the trauma maybe, God knows they have enough of it. Just because Adam saw a therapist for some time, it doesn’t mean he stopped working through his issues. Maybe it’s why he sometimes slips into this _mood_ , why he seems so closed-off at times.

Ronan decides it’s paranoia.

Then Adam drives up for a visit in October and he leaves his wash-bag in the Barns. Ronan just wants to look through it to check if there’s anything Adam would need before they see each other on Halloween. Just take a look so he doesn’t bother Adam, who is busy as it is, with a pointless call.

There is lipstick inside. Liquidy, coral pink lipstick.

This isn’t paranoia.

He tries to stay calm the whole drive to Harvard but he can’t—there’s some girl in Adam’s life and even if she isn’t there to _replace_ him, and it’s a strong _if_ , Adam is still hiding her from Ronan.

He’s going to make lunch for Adam—if this is going to be a break-up, he’ll at least feed him for the last time—and they are going to talk about the lipstick and the make-up bag and what Adam’s been hiding.

He stands in front of Adam’s doors for five minutes wondering if bringing that up is worth it, maybe he should just pretend he didn’t find anything.

But he doesn’t want to pretend. He always thought he wouldn’t have to pretend around Adam.

So Adam opens the door and—

“Oh,” is what Ronan says when the door closes on his face. And then, “Fuck.”

He stands there, staring at the closed door, and asks himself if this has really just happened.

The lipstick isn’t some girl’s—it’s _Adam’s._

He saw only a glimpse, really, with how fast it all happened. Denim, reaching around the half of his calf, tight at the belt. Dimmed eyelashes, sharp in the corner. Glossy pink lips. He didn’t know he needed to see this but he now knows he wants to see it again.

Adam who has just given him a minor heart attack. Adam with make-up. Adam in a skirt. Maybe simply Adam in general.

So Ronan takes a few deep breathes, leaning his forehead on the door, thinks about a very cold shower for a minute or two. Tries the handle and when it doesn’t open, decides to give Adam some time—there’s no point hurrying him up with whatever is going in his head, he will find Ronan on his own.

He goes to the kitchen, places the bags on the counter, and stares into space for a minute or two, laughing a bit maniacally.

How could he, even for a second, think there was a girl? He was an absolute _idiot_.

Ronan isn’t a fan of skirts. Mostly because _skirts_ imply _girls_ , and he isn't a fan of them either. Somehow, when he adds Adam to skirts, he’s a big fan now. To be honest, anything becomes better when he adds Adam to it.

When Adam finally comes to the kitchen, he looks shaken off and a shade paler—Ronan can’t help being disappointed when he notices his make-up is off, except for a couple of smudges of eyeliner in the corner of his eyes and instead of that gorgeous jean skirt, emphasizing his narrow waist and wide shoulders, he’s wearing his usual straight jeans.

It hits Ronan—it’s what Adam’s been hiding, it’s what Adam felt like he couldn’t tell him about. In all this heaven-like experience, he completely forgot this was a _secret._ This was _hesitance_.

They are both idiots. It’s not like Ronan ever had an option to not love Adam, no matter the shape or form.

Ronan pretends this is their normal. Let’s him tremble in his arms, just takes in the shape of him, the scent of books and motor oil, and lets them both calm down.

It hits him when he goes to the Barns the next day, lays on his and Adam’s bed—Adam in a skirt.

He closes his eyes and recounts the image—narrow, fitted waist, the hem riding up when Adam moves his lean legs. Imagines how Ronan’s hand could wander up to his thigh, under the material, stroking the delicate skin there. How Adam’s hips would curve out. How Ronan could taste that glossy lipstick. How Adam would flutter his heavy-lidded eyes at him.

He needed a shower.

They video call the next day, as always, and he feels like a child before opening Christmas presents, fidgeting in his seat on the couch, reaching for and checking the phone every few seconds, despite knowing Adam will call at their usual time. He can’t wait to see him with make-up, letting Ronan stare as much as he wants to.

Adam’s bare face shows up on the screen. He’s glancing down at his lap, avoiding Ronan’s eyes and his shoulders are hunched forward. Ronan would have never described him as shy but it looked nothing but _shy_ —he never wants to see him like that again.

But he doesn’t know how to start this conversation, doesn’t know what words Adam wants to hear, what words he _doesn’t_ want to hear.

The first skirt is an accident. He didn’t mean to dream it, really. He saw it somewhere on TV, just after his talk with Adam the second day after coming back to the Barns.

He dreams an exact copy. Pleated, black and white, plaid, and reaching just under Adam’s knees. It would match Ronan’s black sweater, the one Adam stole last winter, and all his turtlenecks. He could imagine it—Adam, hiding his freckled face in it while playing with the hem of the skirt.

Fuck.

Suddenly Ronan _can’t stop_ dreaming skirts. Obscenely tight, made of dark gray denim. An asymmetric, dark blue one that would show only a tiny bit of one of Adam’s thighs. Black one, so long it would drag behind Adam’s feet like a veil.

He pushes them under the bed, hoping that by the time Adam comes for Thanksgiving, he will know what to do with them.

Then things get out of hand—he dreams a fucking lingerie. Sheer, black underskirt, waist slip, whatever they call it, with a split for one thin leg, that would absolutely cover _nothing_.

He still can't get himself to throw it out.

Opal reminds him, for once, he needs to dream her costume for Halloween.

When he gives her the new dress, boots, and a wig, she looks at him expectedly.

“Kerah not coming with me?” she asks.

“Of course I’m,” he says.

She still stares at him. He’s sure she isn’t blinking. “Addams,” she says.

Ronan gives her a confused stare. “It’s a family,” she adds.

This is as much convincing as Ronan needs.

He dreams that fugly suit and looking at it and at Opal’s dress, he gets an idea. Opal was right, after all—it is a _family_.

He takes that satin black set—flowy, wide-sleeved shirt that seems elegant and trapeze-shaped skirt that will touch the floor at the hem but will also wrap around Adam’s hips like a second skin. His own Morticia.

Adam comes out of the bathroom and Ronan can’t look because once he does, he won’t be able to stop.

He looks. And feels his breath getting stuck in his lungs.

Adam is so fucking pretty. With dark eyeshadows and long fluttering eyelashes, he looks like he could destroy Ronan only with his gaze. His lips have never been more fucking kissable—covered in shiny deep red—and his pink cheeks make him seem flushed, breathless.

Ronan pushes his mind to work again. It’s fucking _hard._

He contemplates just staying in the halls tonight so he would be the only one blessed with _Adam_.

When they get back from trick or treating, he watches him in the bathroom—grateful he was allowed to see it—cleaning the makeup off, methodically, washing his face, putting on one cream after another with lazy movements.

He’s so freaking gorgeous.

He keeps the skirt Ronan dreamt him. Careful folds it and leaves on the highest shelf that holds a cardboard box that, Ronan only now realized, probably stores all Adam’s, well, _this kind_ of stuff.

And when the next day, he sees him wearing the denim skirt Ronan saw him in for the first time and a t-shirt Ronan had dreamt him, with Opal on his knees, playing with one of Adam’s crystal necklaces, Ronan’s heart is about to explode.

_Burst_. _Erupt._ It’s too full.

This is the best birthday present he could get.

The next time Adam video calls him, he looks delicious. Soft blush on his cheeks, sharp, bright eyes, and glossy, peachy lips. Ronan wishes he could hold his face in his hands.

Adam comes home for Thanksgiving. Always does.

Of course, Ronan is prepared to fucking pamper him whether he likes it or not. It took him some research, actually learning what girls—people use for make-up. He can’t even ask the Maggot since Ronan is pretty fucking sure she uses sharpies instead of eyeliner.

He went through about fifty YouTube videos to figure out what Adam uses on daily basis, and then spend about eight hours around drugstore websites, finally deciding he will fucking have to ask in fucking Sephora because he doesn’t know what is actually good enough for Adam.

The conversation with the Sephora shop assistant isn’t the best. It takes her about ten minutes until she realizes that yes, Ronan has the money to buy all the more expensive stuff and yes, Ronan is buying it for his _boy_ friends, not his _girl_ friend. She coos when he shows her a photo of Adam in full make-up, with Opal on his lap and in a pretty flowy low-neck shirt.

At least she recommends him some luxury skincare brands Adam would never indulge in on his own.

He finds Adam’s favorite type of pants—well, Ronan calls it _secret pants_ but in reality, it’s a split skirt—in brown tweed, with a high, narrow waist, and prays it will fit because he wants to see him in it so _badly_.

And—And he visits the attic. The cardboard boxes are there, waiting. For a moment, he thinks that maybe he should just dream Adam something that would look similar, something he would like just as much.

He takes the boxes downstairs. He’d always seen his mother as a very petite woman but when he checks, lays the waist of Adam’s jeans on his mom’s skirt, it’s an inch or two smaller. It seems tiny—Adam really needs to gain weight.

But it will make do.

So he prepares all the autumn and winter skirts his mom had—pleated, tartan, wool, double-layered, linen—and sorts through them, picking the ones Adam would like. Or he hopes he would like.

His mom’s shirts and blouses won’t fit—Adam’s shoulders are broader than they seem—but her fluffy cardigans, well. Cable one, brown. Beige, one so long it almost brushes the floor. White, fitted, with cute big buttons. Baby blue short wool cape that will match his eyes.

He puts it all away in their wardrobe, mixes with the skirts he already dreamt, praying Adam won’t notice it the minute he looks at it, won’t recognize it for what it is.

There’s another full make-up bag in their bathroom now, and Adam can choose whatever he wants from it.

Adam arrives wearing wide-legged pants, ones that Ronan almost mistook for a very simple black skirt, and with heavy-lidded eyes, sharp enough to pierce Ronan’s speeding heart.

Opal attacks him when he’s still hauling his bag on the porch and Adam swipes her up from her feet—hooves—even though Ronan told him countless times to not do that if his back is going to hurt.

Adam smiles at him when Ronan pulls him by the too-long sleeve of his green sweatshirt, takes half of Opal’s weight onto his own arm, and leans down. He can feel the smile on Adam’s lips as he kisses him, along with the sweet taste of his mouth—he wonders if Adam stopped for coffee or if this is a new lip balm.

Ronan’s life is pure bliss.

Adam doesn’t say anything concrete about the changes in the wardrobe but gives Ronan that fond look, the one sixteen-year-old Ronan yearned for.

The next day, Ronan leaves the shower just in his boxers, seeing Adam putting on a fresh pair of socks, almost ready to meet Declan and Matthew. His clothes are wrong.

He doesn’t even hesitate—when Adam gets up, Ronan pushes him back on the bed, starting unzipping his dress pants.

“Lynch,” he hisses at him, swatting his hands away. “Your brothers are going to be here in half an hour.”

He pushes the pants down, as far as he can with Adam sitting. “And you need to change.”

Without a warning and as fast he can so Adam doesn’t have enough time to move from the bed, he searches through the new clothes, setting on a beige cardigan and brown pleated plaid skirt that seems cozy.

“Wear this. Or pick some different sweater, I don’t care, but the skirt stays.”

Adam opens his mouth—to protest, probably—so Ronan gives him a peck on the lips, short but lasting enough that it will distract him.

“Baby,” he says because he fucking wants to. “Do your make-up after you change.”

Adam comes downstairs wearing the cardigan over the white shirt he had on before and the skirt Ronan chose. His eyes aren’t as sharp as they usually would be, but they are still dimmed and heavy, and his lips have deep, dusky nude color.

Ronan really wants to kiss him but he isn't sure how much of that lipstick is going to stay so he opts out for a long forehead kiss that melts Adam into his arms.

“You sure it’s alright?” he asks into Ronan’s collarbone.

He knows perfectly well what he means without the exact words. “Of course.”

Adam doesn’t hear Declan’s car parking in front of the house.

Ronan puts his hand between his shoulder blades, saying close to his ear, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He steps out on the porch and stops Declan before he can even think about entering.

He goes straight to the point, “You say one word and I will fucking throw you out of the house.”

“Nice to see you too,” Declan deadpans. “One word about what?”

He crosses his arms, glaring. “You will know.” When Mattew looks between the two of them, Ronan adds, “It applies to you too, Matty.” He doubts Mattew is even capable of saying something rude but it needed to be said.

Declan stops in the kitchen doorframe, seeing Adam, still with his back to them, transferring gravy into a smaller dish. Ronan hasn’t seen him so wide-eyed in a long time.

When he looks back to Ronan, Ronan reminds him, “Not a word, Dicklan.”

He doesn’t say anything which is good because Ronan wasn’t really in the mood to kick him out.

Matty launches into a long monolog, whining about how senior year is shitty, preoccupying Adam, who is covering the two pies his brothers brought with tin foil so they are ready to heat up.

Ronan stands next to his older brother, noticing that he went weirdly silent again. He’s staring at Adam’s skirt.

“Does he know it’s mom’s?”

He freezes. He didn’t think Declan would remember.

“He wouldn’t be wearing it if he knew.”

Adam is bringing the last pot—mashed potatoes—when they realize Opal is still missing. They sent her to the chicken coop for eggs about two hours ago—they didn’t need eggs, she was just restless and getting in the way in the kitchen—and she didn’t return even at the sound of Declan’s car.

He’s about to get up when Adam pushes him back into his seat.

“I’ll go find her,” he says, stoking Ronan’s arm.

He leans over Ronan’s shoulder and kisses him on the cheek. Everyone’s eyes follow him to the corridor, tracing that fluttering skirt.

Ronan looks back to the table only when he hears the front door closing.

Declan snorts. “You have lipstick on your face,” he notices.

Cheeks turning red, he tries to wipe it off with his sleeve.

Adam comes back, carrying Opal with one arm and trying to clean her dirty face with the other.

Her top is covered in mud. Seating her down next to his own chair, Adam says, “I’ll just fetch her a fresh sweater and we can start on dinner.”

Adam lifts his skirt to go upstairs and—and the motion doesn’t feel bittersweet. Doesn’t hold any bad memories. No, it feels warm. It feels right.

Adam’s smile feels warm. Adam’s whole person feels warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos!
> 
> The third chapter is still in the making so it might take a bit longer to post
> 
> Also, since it's only 3 am and I just finished writing this chapter, I'm going to go make Adam proud and write my two essays

**Author's Note:**

> _Pardon my English, it's not my first language._


End file.
